The Fugitive eBook

Clare. I have to find a new room anyway.
I’m changing—­to be safe. [She takes
a luggage ticket from her glove] I took my things
to Charing Cross—­only a bag and one trunk.
[Then, with that queer expression on her face which
prefaces her desperations] You don’t want me
now, I suppose.

Malise. What?

Clare. [Hardly above a whisper] Because—­if
you still wanted me—­
I do—­now.

[Etext editors note:
In the 1924 revision, 11 years after this
1913 edition: “I
do—­now” is changed to “I could—­now”—­
a significant change
in meaning. D.W.]

Malise. [Staring hard into her face that is
quivering and smiling]
You mean it? You do? You care——?

Clare. I’ve thought of you—­so
much! But only—­if you’re sure.

He clasps her and kisses
her closed eyes; and so they stand for
a moment, till the sound
of a latchkey in the door sends them
apart.

Obediently she gives
him the ticket, smiles, and goes quietly
into the inner room.
Mrs. Miler has entered; her face, more
Chinese than ever, shows
no sign of having seen.

Malise. That lady will stay here, Mrs.
Miler. Kindly go with this ticket to the cloak-room
at Charing Cross station, and bring back her luggage
in a cab. Have you money?

Mrs. Miler. ’Arf a crown. [She
takes the ticket—­then impassively] In case
you don’t know—­there’s two o’
them men about the stairs now.

The moment she is gone Malise
makes a gesture of maniacal fury. He steals
on tiptoe to the outer door, and listens. Then,
placing his hand on the knob, he turns it without
noise, and wrenches back the door. Transfigured
in the last sunlight streaming down the corridor
are two men, close together, listening and consulting
secretly. They start back.

Malise. [With strange, almost noiseless ferocity]
You’ve run her to earth; your job’s done.
Kennel up, hounds! [And in their faces he slams
the door]

Curtain.

SCENE II

Scene II—­The same, early on a winter
afternoon, three months later. The room has now
a certain daintiness. There are curtains over
the doors, a couch, under the window, all the books
are arranged on shelves. In small vases, over
the fireplace, are a few violets and chrysanthemums.
Malise sits huddled in his armchair drawn close
to the fore, paper on knee, pen in hand. He
looks rather grey and drawn, and round his chair is
the usual litter. At the table, now nearer to
the window, Clare sits working a typewriter.
She finishes a line, puts sheets of paper together,
makes a note on a card—­adds some figures,
and marks the total.